The Young Hornblower Omnibus

by C. S. Forester

  “Rubber!” exclaimed the colonel, “we’ve won it, partner! I thought all was lost.”

  Parry was ruefully contemplating his fallen king.

  “I agree that you had to lead your ace, Mr. Hornblower,” he said, “but I would be enchanted to know why you were so certain that my king was unguarded. There were two other diamonds unaccounted for. Would it be asking too much of you to reveal the secret?”

  Hornblower raised his eyebrows in some slight surprise at a question whose answer was so obvious.

  “You were marked with the king, my lord,” he said, “but it was the rest of your hand which was significant, for you were also marked with holding three clubs. With only four cards in your hand the king could not be guarded.”

  “A perfect explanation,” said Parry; “it only goes to confirm me in my conviction that you are an excellent whist player. Mr. Hornblower.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Parry’s quizzical smile had a great deal of friendship in it. If Hornblower’s previous behaviour had not already won Parry’s regard, this last coup certainly had.

  “I’ll bear your name in mind, Mr. Hornblower,” he said. “Sir Richard has already told me the reason why it was familiar to me. It was regrettable that the policy of immediate economy imposed on the Admiralty by the Cabinet should have resulted in your commission as commander not being confirmed.”

  “I thought I was the only one who regretted it, my lord.”

  Bush winced again when he heard the words; this was the time for Hornblower to ingratiate himself with those in authority, not to offend them with unconcealed bitterness. This meeting with Parry was a stroke of good fortune that any half-pay naval officer would give two fingers for. Bush was reassured, however, by a glance at the speakers. Hornblower was smiling with infectious lightheartedness, and Parry was smiling back at him. Either the implied bitterness had escaped Parry’s notice or it had only existed in Bush’s mind.

  “I was actually forgetting that I owe you a further thirty-five shillings,” said Parry, with a start of recollection. “Forgive me. There, I think that settles my monied indebtedness; I am still in your debt for a valuable experience.”

  It was a thick wad of money that Hornblower put back in his pocket.

  “I trust you will keep a sharp lookout for footpads on your way back, Mr. Hornblower,” said Parry with a glance.

  “Mr. Bush will be walking home with me, my lord. It would be a valiant footpad that would face him.”

  “No need to worry about footpads tonight,” interposed the colonel. “Not tonight.”

  The colonel wore a significant grin; the others displayed a momentary disapproval of what apparently was an indiscretion, but the disapproval faded out again when the colonel waved a hand at the clock.

  “Our orders go into force at four, my lord,” said Lambert.

  “And now it is half-past. Excellent.”

  The flag lieutenant came in at that moment; he had slipped out when the last card was played.

  “The carriage is at the door, my lord,” he said.

  “Thank you. I wish you gentlemen a good evening, then.”

  They all walked to the door together; there was the carriage in the street, and the two admirals, the colonel, and the flag lieutenant mounted into it. Hornblower and Bush watched it drive away.

  “Now what the devil are those orders that come into force at four?” asked Bush. The earliest dawn was showing over the rooftops.

  “God knows,” said Hornblower.

  They headed for the corner of Highbury Street.

  “How much did you win?”

  “It was over forty pounds—it must be about forty-five pounds,” said Hornblower.

  “A good night’s work.”

  “Yes. The chances usually right themselves in time.” There was something flat and listless in Hornblower’s tone as he spoke. He took several more strides before he burst out into speech again with a vigour that was in odd contrast. “I wish to God it had happened last week. Yesterday, even.”

  “But why?”

  “That girl. That poor girl.”

  “God bless my soul!” said Bush. He had forgotten all about the fact that Maria had slipped half a crown into Hornblower’s pocket and he was surprised that Hornblower had not forgotten as well. “Why trouble your head about her?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hornblower, and then he took two more strides. “But I do.”

  Bush had no time to meditate over this curious avowal, for he heard a sound that made him grasp Hornblower’s elbow with sudden excitement.

  “Listen!”

  Ahead of them, along the silent street, a heavy military tread could be heard. It was approaching. The faint light shone on white crossbelts and brass buttons. It was a military patrol, muskets at the slope, a sergeant marching beside it, his chevrons and his half-pike revealing his rank.

  “Now, what the deuce—?” said Bush.

  “Halt!” said the sergeant to his men; and then to the other two, “May I ask you two gentlemen who you are?”

  “We are naval officers,” said Bush.

  The lantern the sergeant carried was not really necessary to reveal them. The sergeant came to attention.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  “What are you doing with this patrol, Sergeant?” asked Bush.

  “I have my orders, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir. By the left, quick—march!”

  The patrol strode forward, and the sergeant clapped his hand to his half-pike in salute as he passed on.

  “What in the name of all that’s holy?” wondered Bush. “Boney can’t have made a surprise landing. Every bell would be ringing if that were so. You’d think the press gang was out, a real hot press. But it can’t be.”

  “Look there!” said Hornblower.

  Another party of men was marching along the street, but not in red coats, not with the military stiffness of the soldiers. Checked shirts and blue trousers; a midshipman marching at the head, white patches on his collar and his dirk at his side.

  “The press gang for certain!” exclaimed Bush. “Look at the bludgeons!”

  Every seaman carried a club in his hand.

  “Midshipman!” said Hornblower, sharply. “What’s all this?”

  The midshipman halted at the tone of command and the sight of the uniforms.

  “Orders, sir,” he began, and then, realizing that with the growing daylight he need no longer preserve secrecy, especially to naval men, he went on. “Press gang, sir. We’ve orders to press every seaman we find. The patrols are out on every road.”

  “So I believe. But what’s the press for?”

  “Dunno, sir. Orders, sir.”

  That was sufficient answer, maybe.

  “Very good. Carry on.”

  “The press, by jingo!” said Bush. “Something’s happening.”

  “I expect you’re right,” said Hornblower.

  They had turned into Highbury Street now, and were making their way along to Mrs. Mason’s house.

  “There’s the first results,” said Hornblower.

  They stood on the doorstep to watch them go by, a hundred men at least, escorted along by a score of seamen with staves, a midshipman in command. Some of the pressed men were bewildered and silent; some were talking volubly—the noise they were making was rousing the street. Every man among them had at least one hand in a trouser pocket; those who were not gesticulating had both hands in their pockets.

  “It’s like old times,” said Bush with a grin. “They’ve cut their waistbands.”

  With their waistbands cut it was necessary for them to keep a hand in a trouser pocket, as otherwise their trousers would fall down. No one could run away when handicapped in this fashion.

  “A likely looking lot of prime seamen,” said Bush, running a professional eye over them.

  “Hard luck on them, all the same,” said Hornblower.

  “Hard luck?” said Bush in surprise
.

  Was the ox unlucky when it was turned into beef? Or for that matter was the guinea unlucky when it changed hands? This was life; for a merchant seaman to find himself a sailor of the King was as natural a thing as for his hair to turn grey if he should live so long. And the only way to secure him was to surprise him in the night, rouse him out of bed, snatch him from the grog shop and the brothel, converting him in a single second from a free man earning his livelihood in his own way into a pressed man who could not take a step on shore of his own free will without risking being flogged round the fleet. Bush could no more sympathize with the pressed man than he could sympathize with the night being replaced by day.

  Hornblower was still looking at the press gang and the recruits.

  “It may be war,” he said, slowly.

  “War!” said Bush.

  “We’ll know when the mail comes in,” said Hornblower. “Parry could have told us last night, I fancy.”

  “But—war!” said Bush.

  The crowd went on down the street towards the dockyard, its noise dwindling with the increasing distance, and Hornblower turned towards the street door, taking the ponderous key out of his pocket. When they entered the house they saw Maria standing at the foot of the staircase, a candlestick with an unlighted candle in her hand. She wore a long coat over her nightclothes; she had put on her mob-cap hastily, for a couple of curling papers showed under its edge.

  “You’re safe!” she said.

  “Of course we’re safe, Maria,” said Hornblower. “What do you think could happen to us?”

  “There was all that noise in the street,” said Maria. “I looked out. Was it the press gang?”

  “That’s just what it was,” said Bush.

  “Is it—is it war?”

  “That’s what it may be.”

  “Oh!” Maria’s face revealed her distress. “Oh!”

  Her eyes searched their faces.

  “No need to worry, Miss Maria,” said Bush. “It’ll be many a long year before Boney brings his flat-bottoms up Spithead.”

  “It’s not that,” said Maria. Now she was looking only at Hornblower. In a flash she had forgotten Bush’s existence.

  “You’ll be going away!” she said.

  “I shall have my duty to do if I am called upon, Maria,” said Hornblower.

  Now a grim figure appeared climbing the stairs from the basement—Mrs. Mason; she had no mob-cap on so that her curl papers were all visible.

  “You’ll disturb my other gentlemen with all this noise,” she said.

  “Mother, they think it’s going to be war,” said Maria.

  “And not a bad thing perhaps if it means some people will pay what they owe.”

  “I’ll do that this minute,” said Hornblower holtly. “What’s my reckoning, Mrs. Mason?”

  “Oh, please, please—” said Maria interposing.

  “You just shut your mouth, Miss,” snapped Mrs. Mason. “It’s only because of you that I’ve let this young spark run on.”

  “Mother!”

  “ ‘I’ll pay my reckoning,’ he says, like a lord. And not a shirt in his chest. His chest’d be at the pawnbroker’s too if I hadn’t nobbled it.”

  “I said I’d pay my reckoning and I mean it, Mrs. Mason,” said Hornblower with enormous dignity.

  “Let’s see the colour of your money, then,” stipulated Mrs. Mason, not in the least convinced. “Twenty-seven and six.”

  Hornblower brought a fistful of silver out of his trouser pocket. But there was not enough there, and he had to extract a note from his breast pocket, revealing as he did so that there were many more.

  “So!” said Mrs. Mason. She looked down at the money in her hand as if it were fairy gold, and opposing emotions waged war in her expression.

  “I think I might give you a week’s warning, too,” said Hornblower, harshly.

  “Oh no!” said Maria.

  “That’s a nice room you have upstairs,” said Mrs. Mason. “You wouldn’t be leaving me just on account of a few words.”

  “Don’t leave us, Mr. Hornblower,” said Maria.

  If ever there was a man completely at a loss it was Hornblower. After a glance at him Bush found it hard not to grin. The man who could keep a cool head when playing for high stakes with admirals—the man who fired the broadside that shook the Renown off the mud when under the fire of red-hot shot—was helpless when confronted by a couple of women. It would be a picturesque gesture to pay his reckoning—if necessary to pay an extra week’s rent in lieu of warning—and to shake the dust of the place from his feet. But on the other hand he had been allowed credit here, and it would be a poor return for that consideration to leave the moment he could pay. But to stay on in a house that knew his secrets was an irksome prospect too. The dignified Hornblower who was ashamed of ever appearing human would hardly feel at home among people who knew that he had been human enough to be in debt. Bush was aware of all these problems as they confronted Hornblower, of the kindly feelings and the embittered ones. And Bush could be fond of him even while he laughed at him, and could respect him even while he knew of his weaknesses.

  “When did you gennelmen have supper?” asked Mrs. Mason.

  “I don’t think we did,” answered Hornblower, with a side glance at Bush.

  “You must be hungry, then, if you was up all night. Let me cook you a nice breakfast. A couple of thick chops for each of you. Now how about that?”

  “By George!” said Hornblower.

  “You go on up,” said Mrs. Mason. “I’ll send the girl up with hot water an’ you can shave. Then when you come down there’ll be a nice breakfast ready for you. Maria, run and make the fire up.”

  Up in the attic Hornblower looked whimsically at Bush.

  “That bed you paid a shilling for is still virgin,” he said. “You haven’t had a wink of sleep all night and it’s my fault. Please forgive me.”

  “It’s not the first night I haven’t slept,” said Bush. He had not slept on the night they stormed Samaná; many were the occasions in foul weather when he had kept the deck for twenty-four hours continuously. And after a month of living with his sisters in the Chichester cottage, of nothing to do except to weed the garden, of trying to sleep for twelve hours a night for that very reason, the variety of excitement he had gone through had been actually pleasant. He sat down on the bed while Hornblower paced the floor.

  “You’ll have plenty more if it’s war,” Hornblower said; and Bush shrugged his shoulders.

  A thump on the door announced the arrival of the maid of all work of the house, a can of hot water in each hand. Her ragged dress was too large for her—handed down presumably from Mrs. Mason or from Maria—and her hair was tousled, but she, too, turned wide eyes on Hornblower as she brought in the hot water. Those wide eyes were too big for her skinny face, and they followed Hornblower as he moved about the room, and never had a glance for Bush. It was plain that Hornblower was as much the hero of this fourteen-year-old foundling as he was of Maria.

  “Thank you, Susie,” said Hornblower; and Susie dropped an angular curtsey before she scuttled from the room with one last glance round the door as she left.

  Hornblower waved a hand at the wash-hand stand and the hot water.

  “You first,” said Bush.

  Hornblower peeled off his coat and his shirt and addressed himself to the business of shaving. The razor blade rasped on his bristly cheeks; he turned his face this way and that so as to apply the edge. Neither of them felt any need for conversation, and it was practically in silence that Hornblower washed himself, poured the wash water into the slop pail, and stood aside for Bush to shave himself.

  “Make the most of it,” said Hornblower. “A pint of fresh water twice a week for shaving’ll be all you’ll get if you have your wish.”

  “Who cares?” said Bush.

  He shaved, restropped his razor with care, and put it back into his roll of toilet articles. The scars that seamed his ribs gleamed pale as he moved.
When he had finished dressing he glanced at Hornblower.

  “Chops,” said Hornblower. “Thick chops. Come on.”

  There were several places laid at the table in the dining-room opening out of the hall, but nobody else was present; apparently it was not the breakfast hour of Mrs. Mason’s other gentlemen.

  “Only a minute, sir,” said Susie, showing up in the doorway for a moment before hurrying down into the kitchen.

  She came staggering back laden with a tray; Hornblower pushed back his chair and was about to help her, but she checked him with a scandalized squeak and managed to put the tray safely on the side table without accident.

  “I can serve you, sir,” she said.

  She scuttled back and forward between the two tables like the boys running with the nippers when the cable was being hove in. Coffee-pot and toast, butter and jam, sugar and milk, cruet and hot plates and finally a wide dish which she laid before Hornblower; she took off the cover and there was a noble dish of chops whose delightful scent, hitherto pent up, filled the room.

  “Ah!” said Hornblower, taking up a spoon and fork to serve. “Have you had your breakfast, Susie?”

  “Me, sir? No, sir. Not yet sir.”

  Hornblower paused, spoon and fork in hand, looking from the chops to Susie and back again. Then he put down the spoon and thrust his right hand into his trouser pocket.

  “There’s no way in which you can have one of these chops?” he said.